


Second Chances

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), The Man in the High Castle (TV), Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Otp for life, SECRETLY, Sorry Not Sorry, The Doctor Who/Man in the High Castle crossover no one asked for, Vicbourne, but all wanted, the doctor is as third wheel here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Clara was Clara, she was Alexandrina Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Before John Smith was John Smith, he was William Lamb, or Lord Melbourne, Prime Minister of Great Britian. </p><p>Now, they are who they are, despite their pasts. But, the universe is offering them a second chance. Will they take it?</p><p>[or, the DW/MITHC crossover that no one asked for]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Memories and Love

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeellooo! So, I watched Victoria, and Vicbourne has officially ruined my life. So, I wrote this because of reasons. 
> 
> You don't have to have watched the Man in the High Castle for this to make sense, but maybe it'll help later on. 
> 
> This is a pilot chapter, sort of, so I'll expend on it if you guys think I should!
> 
> As usual,  
> Enjoy!

Clara led in her bed, staring at the ceiling. The TARDIS whirred around her, comforting and familiar. A thick, black journal led on her chest, rising and falling with each breath she took. The pages were old and yellowed, the leather worn and crumbling. Notes and letters stuck out at odd angles, loose paper folded neatly into its pages. Her fingers closed around it and the memories it held.

She remembered little about her echoes. Some parts more than others, she supposed. Most of it had been like falling, faster and faster, always looking for the Doctor, always running, always saving him. She remembered little about that. But, for one life, she remembered it all. There had been no Doctor until much, much later, and admittedly some running. It had been slow and fast, and sweet and painful all at once. She remembered it all, remembered that life. She remembered looking in the mirror and seeing sapphire eyes. She remembered living in a palace. She remembered Dash, and Albert, and their children. She remembered long winters and cool summers, rainy autumns and even wetter springs. She remembered horses, and hallways and a love like no other.

The book was warm beneath her fingers, but she didn't need to open it to know what was in it. She didn't need to read it to know what those pages were filled with. There had been Albert, yes. Glorious, wonderful, Albert. He'd loved her, and she'd loved him, and it had been wonderful.

Her fingers brushed over old parchment, and she smiled. It had been Albert, then. But not at first. Not when she was young, much younger than she was now. She'd been scared and confused, in over her head and out of her depth. But then, she'd been saved from drowning.

The letter was cold beneath her fingertips. Clara sat up, carefully unfolded the paper. Elegant handwriting greeted her, so familiar to her eyes. She scanned it, remembering how she'd felt when she'd read it first, all those years ago, sat in her study, young and terrified of losing her only friend. Her head had been full of doubts, and warm with fever. The letter had made her feel better. She'd written back, of course, straight away. She'd complained about a cold, and of how it had been his fault she'd been out in the rain, so really, it was his fault she was sick. They'd laughed about it afterwards, of course, once he was back at her side where he belonged.

Her eyes lingered on the signature. She smiled.

'Lord M,' she breathed quietly, fingers tracing the black ink. Lord Melbourne's handwriting had always been somewhat of a fascination to her, even as an adolescent. His hand had been so full of gentle lines and soft edges, curves sweeping the page with each letter. Beautiful.

Clara folded the letter and slipped it back into the journal. She felt restless and weighed down with memory. She slipped out from under the covers, journal in hand, and padded over to the door. It opened with barley a sound, and she began to walk. To where, she wasn't sure.

She was reminded of the time when she would walk the halls of the palace, well into the night. Her insomnia had worsened some after Albert's death, but had peaked after Lord Melbourne's some twenty years previous. She remembered the day the messenger had arrived, late one cold November morning. They'd fallen out of touch in the years leading up to his death, as she came to spend less and less time in his company and more and more in Albert's. It had been sudden enough, a stroke the doctors had said. He'd written to her not a few days previous. He said he'd been ill, and was unlikely to last long. She'd always meant to visit him, but had never found the time. There'd always been something to do, things that seemed so utterly unimportant once she'd heard of his passing. After all, what could have been more important than visiting her oldest, most dear friend on his death bed? She'd been inconsolable for weeks afterwards, unwilling to speak to anyone and everyone, including her husband. She barely ate, barely left her rooms. When she did leave, she wore black, spoke to no one. She regretted never telling him how much he meant to her, regretted the dissolution of their friendship as Albert took up more of her attentions each day. She had forgotten him, and he'd died alone, without her company.

It was late, and the console room was dark and empty when she entered, socked feet making no sound on the floor. She padded over to the console, ran her fingers over the paneling. She missed him, sometimes, when she'd lay awake at night. She missed how he'd make her laugh when she was feeling down. She missed his eyes, and the way they'd sparkle with mirth when they'd jest together. She missed the way he made her feel, like she was the most important being in the world.

She'd gone to see him afterwards, just once. The Doctor had been sleeping, and she'd piloted the TARDIS the right way, so it made no noise as it landed. William had been sleeping, and he'd been younger then, younger than when she knew him. He looked to be in a frightful state, still half dressed, passed out over his desk. She took a moment to look at him, and stepped out of the TARDIS to get closer. She'd noticed the letters of condolences, saw the picture of his son he held in a lax grip. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, the gentle brush of lips on skin. Her heart broke for him, and she turned around and left. She didn't want to see him like this, broken and defeated. She remembered him being strong. She didn't think he'd have wanted her to have seen him like that, either.

The sound of movement brought her back to the present. It was the Doctor.

'Clara?' He asked her, voice soft and gentle. Clara lifted her head, smiled softly up at him. 'What are you doing?'

'Just remembering,' she said. Her heart felt heavy with memories, and she ached with the knowledge that she could never see him again. The first time had been dangerous enough, and besides, he was long dead now.

The Doctor seemed to recognise her mood, and joined her by the console. She needed a distraction, and he provided one. 'Let's go somewhere. Somewhere nice and new.'

Clara smiled, held her journal just a bit tighter. 'Let's.'

The Doctor nodded, pulled a few levers. 'Coordinates set to random,' he announced, and Clara felt the familiar excitement that came with exploration. She watched him move around the console, almost dancing, but not quite. She doubted he'd like it if she told him he danced. He didn't seem the type to dance, and then like it.

The TARDIS gave an almighty shudder, and jolted sharply to the right. Clara stumbled, almost fell. She grasped her journal tighter still with one hand, and grabbed a railing with the other. The ship rattled, unsteady and shaking, but neither Clara or the Doctor minded. They landed with a jarring hiss, and Clara released her white-knuckled grip and stood. While the Doctor was picking himself up off of the floor, she made her way to the wardrobe.

New planets were a conundrum. She regarded the railings in front of her, fingers skimming over fabrics as she walked through the aisles. She remembered a time when she'd change at least three times a day, when people would dress her like a doll and do her hair. She remembered a time when her hair was long. Now, it was shorter, and she was older. She wished Mrs Jenkins were here to dress her now. The Welsh woman always knew what she should wear.

Her fingers brushed a cotton dress. It was soft and yielding beneath her fingers. She paused, pulled it out to examine it. White, with intricate, pale blue needle work forming delicate flowers. White lace lined the neckline and the hems of the skirt and sleeves, the fabric dotted with tiny, blue jewels. She smiled, it felt right beneath her fingers. So, she set her journal down, and changed into the dress, tying the bow up behind her tightly. She turned to regard herself in the mirror. The dress was beautiful, both flattering and soft. Still, it was lacking something.

Eyes widening, Clara snatched up her journal, and hurried to her room. She threw open the door, and made a beeline for the wooden chest that sat under her bed. She pulled it out, opened it and rummaged through the contents. It contained various things she'd accumulated over the years.

Her fingers closed around a ceramic trinket box, and she pulled it out triumphantly. Quickly shoving everything else back in the chest, she slammed it closed and pushed it back into its home. Eager, she ran to her mirror, eased open the lid. Inside, led a cameo broach. A picture of herself led carved in pearly ivory, framed by the brightest of silvers. She ran her fingers over it appreciatively, and clipped it to the centre of the lacy neck-line. It looked perfect.

Happy, she toed on her boots, black and slightly heeled, laced them up and made for the door. Stilling, Clara hesitated at the handle. After a moment's consideration, she picked up her bag and her journal, slid the book comfortably into the white leather. Now satisfied, she left, walking to the console room with her heels clicking on the metal flooring.

The Doctor had clearly changed while she was away, and he now sported his usual black jacket. The red lining glared up at her while his hands were tucked neatly into his pockets. He smiled at her as she approached. They made their way over to the door together. The Doctor pushed it open, and they stepped out into an empty corridor.

Clara's eyes were immediately sweeping over the room, taking in everything she could as fast as she could. The Doctor was mumbling to himself.

'This is strange,' he was saying. 'The air is funny. But this is definitely Earth, and it's definitely America, 1963, so why is the air so funny...'

Clara turned to him, amused. 'Maybe you're just loosing your touch,' she smiled. The Doctor glared, and grumbled some more. Clara shrugged, led the way down the hallway towards the sound of voices. She hummed to herself as she walked, and the hallway tapered off into a wooden door. She waited for the Doctor to catch up, then pushed it open. The sight that greeted them was one of a busy office lobby. The floor was white and marbled, the walls similarly so. There were people everywhere, soldiers too.

'That's not possible,' came the Doctor's frowned input. Clara agreed. The soldiers before them weren't just any soldiers, they were Nazi soldiers. They shared a bewildered glance, and the Doctor busied himself by running through various scenarios in which this could be possible. Meanwhile, Clara did her best impression of an embarrassed-young-woman, and made her way over to the nearest friendly looking soldier, which happened to be around the corner. He looked up and smiled at her as she approached.

'Sorry, hi,' she said, smiling innocently. 'I had a knock to the head earlier, some men looking for a fight, um, I was wondering if you could tell me where exactly it is I am?'

The soldier looked immediately concerned, and nodded quickly. 'Of course, miss,' he said, 'you're in the SS headquarters in New York.' Clara blinked rapidly, then nodded. 'You sure you don't want me to call an ambulance for you? Or maybe get a medic?'

Clara shook her head, and obliged him when he asked for a description of her non-existent attackers. She vaguely described a generic-white male, and gave nothing major away. She left with a smile and a promise to go to the hospital if she felt any worse.

She was making her way back over to the Doctor when she collided bodily with someone. Male, by the initial feel of him, and his coffee and files went everywhere. She bent down with flustered apologies, began to pick up the paperwork she'd made him drop. The man bent down next to her, and his hands joined her amidst the sea of paper on the floor.

'Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, I wasn't even looking where I was going.'

'No, no. It's okay,' came a very familiar voice. Clara looked up, and her heart leapt six inches to strangle her. Her eyes locked with green ones, and suddenly her breathing was all too loud. The world narrowed in a way that was so cliche, her hearing even muted. Her entire body stilled, and her brain was screaming at her.

_Impossible, impossible. It's not, it can't be. Get a hold of yourself! ___

__'I'm sorry,' she breathed, trying desperately to return from the clouded haze of her mind. The man shook his head with a small smile, and Clara noticed he looked as shell shocked and she felt. They cleaned up the paperwork and stood in unison. Clara couldn't look away from those green eyes, and how could she have forgotten how much taller he was than her? Even now, he stood almost six inches above her._ _

__Silence stretched on between them, the hustle and bustle of the lobby far away. For a moment, she was young and blue eyed, standing in the crowds on her coronation, with eyes for none but him. Then, someone cleared their throat, and Clara snapped back to reality._ _

__'Obergruppenführer,' came a voice. Clara looked past him, past her memories, and saw another soldier, waiting impatiently._ _

__'Of course,' he said in a voice so familiar, so authoritative, and despite his accent, Clara knew in an instant it was him. She watched him walk away, met his confused and shocked gaze just before he entered the lift. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, and could feel the shake of her hands against the fabric of her dress as she rolled it between her fingers nervously. She watched him until the silver doors closed with a clunk, and her vision blurred with tears. She continued staring until he was well out of her sight, until the Doctor was by her side, and the journal burned against her back._ _

__In some cruel twist of fate, the universe was giving her a second chance. The question remained._ _

__Would she take it?_ _


	2. Having a Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is much more narrative driven than what my usual stuff is, but I'm seriously enjoying writing these two! If you guys have any suggestions/scenes/themes you want to see, including background relationships, hit me up!
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

Clara stood before the mirror and wished, not for the first time, that Mrs Jenkins and her ladies were here. They'd surely know what to do. She was in quite the pickle.

She'd met this delightful young man, Joe. He was kind, and funny. Quite handsome too, even if his jaw was _slightly_ too long for her tastes. Still, he had bright blue eyes and a wide smile, and was more than happy to answer her questions. 

The Doctor had grouched all the way to this quaint little coffee shop, a block or so from the building they'd landed in. Clara had wandered behind him, taking in all she could of this strange new world. Lord M's world. She wanted to know all she could, she wanted to learn about this city and how it came to be. She wanted to know about Lord M, who he was here. He seemed important. Somethings would never change, she supposed. 

Clara remembered Joe's winning smile as she contemplated her clothing options. They boy had been far too kind to her, and as luck would have it, Lord M was his mentor, just as he had once been hers. His name, now, was John Smith. So frightfully ordinary for such an extraordinary man, she thought, eyeing up a silver bracelet. But nevertheless, it suited him somewhat. 

Joe had mentioned a gala, and Clara knew instantly that if she had any hope of seeing her Lord M again, she'd have to go. She flirted as best as she was able, years of court and teaching all rolling together to help her assume the perfect role as an interested party. Joe's mind seemed elsewhere, but he had invited her - and the Doctor, too, as more of an afterthought - to the party that anyone who was anyone in New York would attend, so she was sure of seeing him there. 

Her eye caught on a black gown, long and somewhat daring for the oppressed 1960s she was in. Never one to shy away from fashion, she ran the fabric between her fingers experimentally. Mrs Jenkins had always said she had a neck like a swan, long and elegant. Miss Skerrett would tie up her corset and comment on how lucky she was to have such a fine body, and that men would be falling over themselves to be with her. Mrs Jenkins would admonish her in a way only the welsh woman could, and Clara realised quite suddenly how acutely she missed them.

Shaking herself of her melancholy was somewhat easier when the Doctor's knuckles were rapping on the door to her room. He'd managed, somehow, to get them a room each in a swanky hotel. The decor was golden and romanic, and Clara felt more at home in it than she ever did in her own flat in London. She would ask the TARDIS for a more classical feel, she decided, slipping on the gown. She called for the Doctor to come in, which he did, and she turned her back expectantly. She watched him flounder for a moment, glance awkwardly to the side while he tried to work out what she wanted of him.

'Zip me up,' she said, then tagged on a cursory 'please,' for politeness' sake. He nodded, made his way over to her. His fingers were warm against the soft skin of her back, and if she noticed they lingered longer than necessary, she said nothing of it. She stepped into her shoes, black and heeled, a fashion slightly more modern than she'd usually allow herself. Maybe now, she'd finally be able to look Lord M in the eye without cramping her neck. 

A necklace led on the vanity, one she'd saved from her personal collection for a special occasion. Lord Melbourne had seen her in it but once, and she hoped he'd recognise it tonight. The Doctor picked it up without instruction, carefully placed it around her neck. The cool silver rested against her breast plate, the heavy weight of the lattice of diamonds and sapphires reassuring in its familiarity. 

She took one, last glance at herself in the mirror before she left. She looked pale, like porcelain, fragile and delicate. It pleased her to look and be two very different things, because she was anything but breakable. She fixed her hair, gave a cursory pout to check her lipstick, matte and nude. She had little practice with false eyelashes, but they looked amazing. She made a note to thank Becky, her coworker and resident history enthusiast, for the tip. It was true. Falsies could make any look.

The Doctor was waiting patiently by the door, and he led her down to the car that was to take them to the house of their host. The door closed with a soft click, and within minutes, she was out in the evening air. It was thick with precipitation, and she hoped it wouldn't rain.

The Doctor opened her door, and she smiled at him, slid elegantly into a sleek black, town car. Their driver, his name was Ray, she'd learnt, was assigned to them for the duration of their stay in New York. Clara smiled and thanked him kindly, and gazed out of the window for the reminder of the journey. She enjoyed cars for more than carriages, she thought. They were quicker and far more comfortable. 

The evening went well. The music was strangely good, generically classical and very German, but good. The food was amazing, and even the Doctor agreed about that. She'd sat with Joe, as she was his guest, smiling and laughing with the people around her. It was so formal yet relaxed at the same time, and despite knowing she was sitting around a table with a group of _Nazis_ , Clara found that she was enjoying herself. The Doctor was too, whatever his earlier grumblings.

She was mingling, scanning the crowd for a familiar face while plucking a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter. She noticed woman staring at her necklace, some with awe, most with envy, and it fed a part of her that had developed as a child in the palace, where she was Queen, the most powerful and the most beautiful woman in the country. She enjoyed the attention, good or otherwise. It satisfied her to be in people's thoughts.

'You again,' came a familiar voice, and Clara turned, smiled. She drained her glass and set it on a passing waiter's tray. Her heart sung with joy. She couldn't help herself.

'Clara Oswald,' she said. He smiled, and something in her chest constricted. It was the same smile, that small upturn of his lips and the dance of mirth in his eyes.

'John Smith.' He extended a hand for her to shake, which she did. His hand was warm and familiar in hers, calloused from years of fighting and holding a gun. She remembered his touch well, as fleeting as it may have been. She realised that she missed it, the soft brush of his fingers when they were alone, the warmth of his thigh against hers because they'd always ride too close together. 

'I'm sorry,' she said, realising how long she'd been silent. 'I... I think I've seen you somewhere before.' 

He nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. 'I think, perhaps, you might have done.'

His American accent had now all but vanished, and Clara fought the dusting of pink that settled on her cheeks. She bit her bottom lip, looked down at her shoes for a brief moment. The music changed to another song. A waltz. The song flowed through her, ignited the memory of him holding her close as they moved across the floor, her hair brushing his fingertips, her mind buzzed with alcohol. 

_I want to dance with you._

He seemed to read her mind, and offered her his hand in invitation. She took it, let him lead her to the dance floor. They moved together almost as one, the dances distant memories, but not quite forgotten, the steps drilled into them both in childhood. Now, it was muscle memory, as easy as breathing. 

Clara allowed herself a smile, and thought that she fitted against him quite well. Like they were made to be together. She was made to be in his arms, to be held by him, loved by him. She had wanted no other, last time they had danced like this. She had wanted him, and only him. But then came Albert, young and caring and handsome. She'd forgotten about her darling Lord M. 

The soft brush of fingertips lifting her chin brought her out of her thoughts. 

'Think not of it,' said John, his voice gentle. Clara nodded, looked up into those beautiful green eyes. 

'Do you remember that night? Our first dance?' She asked him, twirling elegantly under his arm. He chuckled as she pressed herself back up against him, both of them close, breathing the same air.

'When you drank too much champagne, and refused to speak to me for days afterwards?'

'You wouldn't dance with me,' said Clara, almost childishly indignant. John laughed at the pretty pout on her face. 

'Then you and I remember that night very differently, ma'am' he smiled. How quickly they fell back into old habits and mannerisms. Clara let out a huff, so easily returning to the banter they had shared together in the past. She remembered only of what she'd been told about that night, the rest came in drips and drabs. According to Mrs Jenkins, and many of her ladies, she'd made rather a scene, and gallant, dashing Lord M had swooped in to save face - Anna's words, not hers. Emma had said nothing, as one of Lord M's close friends, and had done naught but smile. According to palace gossip, she'd propositioned him, and he'd gently turned her down. She remembered some of that conversation, but she definitely remembered the horrible headache, and heartache, she'd had the following morning. That was one of their first, major, arguments, and she'd not spoken to him for a week afterwards. 

The song ended, and she returned from her memories. Clara gave him a mocking curtsy, and he bowed in return with a chuckle. The light caught on something, a flash of gold in his finger. Her heart sank and her chest tightened. A wedding band. He was married. He followed her gaze, but said nothing. 

Clara returned to the Doctor, and John to his wife. She sighed. It seemed, even in this life, he was unattainable to her. This time, she watched from the sidelines as he talked and joked with his officers, sipping her champagne as he drank his whiskey and smoked his cigarettes. He danced with his wife, just as he had with her. She could no longer bear to watch him. She left the hall, the Doctor's confused and worried gaze on her back.

The universe was unfair, she thought, her shoes clicking on the marbled flooring as she escaped the too small hallway. She pushed a door open, and it banged loudly against the wall as she stepped out into the night, tears gathering fresh in her eyes. The rain hammered down around her, noisy and hard. 

How was it that she had finally found him again, and he'd been so cruelly removed from her clutches? It was selfish, she knew. She should be content with him as he was now, but she was selfish by nature. She had always been selfish when it came to him. As Lord Melbourne, she'd needed him, had demanded and ordered he stay by her side, to never abandon her, or _desert_ her. And then she'd abandoned him, selfishly, to bathe in the affections of her husband, Albert. She had shunned him in favour of the man she'd claimed she'd never marry, had neglected him and had pushed him aside.

It was punishment then, she conceded, roughly wiping tears, rain and makeup from her flushed cheeks. Punishment for everything she'd done to him, despite everything he'd ever done for her. She was doomed to forever hold him at arm's length, to forever live with the burden of love, unattainable for her, once, and again now, because of him. For she did love him. She loved him with everything that she had, since the day he'd stepped up beside her on her throne, and whispered the names of her lords in her ear. She'd loved him, always, and wasn't it terrible that it had taken over a century for her to realise it?

She wandered through the gardens, with no real purpose. Away from the house, the music and chatter died away the further she moved from it. Soon, it was only her and her memories. The rain beat down, her footfalls crunching on the loose-pebble gravel.

It reminded her of Brocket Hall. So tall were the trees, so dark were the birds. She wondered if they were rooks. Pain stabbed at her heart. There were few reasons why she had not visited him there again. Most were frivolous, ones she told to herself and to those around her when they would ask. But she knew those were wrong. She would not return there. Indeed, how could she when her heart had been broken there, under trees so similar to the ones she was stood under now? She'd broken her heart then, and it was breaking now.

She came to a bench, white and metal, and she fell down onto it. The ground was beginning to grow saturated, the evening air cold around her. She didn't care. The sky, a deep indigo, bled into the distant light of the city. Black clouds obscured the stars, offering their tears for her loss. She sniffed, reminded of the many nights she'd spend sat in her gardens, Lord M by her side, both of them talking and joking under the star light. Now, she was alone, with naught but her thoughts to keep her company.

Minutes passed with the mocking of the rooks, their call as much like laughter now than it had ever been. She was shivering, soaked through to the skin, the fabric of her dress clinging to her like wet paint.

She startled as something dry and warm settled over her shoulders. A coat, heavy and black, a red armband glaring proudly out at her. She sniffed despite her will, looked at the person who had settled beside her. She sat in stubborn, stoic silence, trembling from cold. A huff of air, and warm arms enveloped her. She fell easily into the solid warmth beside her, looked briefly up into green eyes, then tucked her head into John's chest. Her fingers held the soft fabric of his jacket, and the night felt much less harsh than before. 

They sat in comfortable silence, the rooks cawing and scratching in the trees above them. The sky rumbled, then flashed with lightening. It lit up the hollows of John's cheeks and the brightness of his eyes. Clara shifted closer, the clap of thunder echoing in her ears. 

'Do you miss it, Lord M?' She asked him, voice quiet. She could already hear the roundness seeping back into her voice, the drawing out of vowels and the clipping of constants. She gazed out into the gardens before her, the flowers soft in the darkness. John sighed beside her.

'Sometimes, ma'am, he admitted, green eyes following the path of a car winding down the lane towards the estate. 'It all feels so far away, I suppose.'

'Like a different life,' offered Clara softly.

'It _was_ a different life,' he said. She nodded gently. He paused, then sighed, fingers tracing absent patterns into her back. 'I'd like to think I was a better person then, at least.'

Clara looked up at him, blinking the rain out of her eyes. 'I see nothing wrong with who you are now.'

John chuckled ruefully. 'I see plenty. I used to strive for equality, now I deny it. I'm not a good man, ma'am. I'm a good _Nazi_.'

_Tell me Clara, am I a good man?_

'Maybe, Lord M' said Clara, moving to rest her head on his shoulder. 'Maybe.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was chapter two! I've planned it to be maybe 5/6 chapters, but that may possibly change!
> 
> Drop me a comment to tell me what you think!


	3. Central Parks and Rec.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a shorter chapter than usual, but I wanted something cute. I was going for cute, Anyways, but whether it is or not remains to be seen xD
> 
> Anyways, if any of you have any questions about this, you know where to find me! I'm always more than happy to speak to you all!
> 
> As usual,  
> Enjoy!

The sun shone down on the trees of Central Park. The air, crisp and cold, was sharp and fresh. Clara tugged lightly at her scarf with gloved hands. In one, she held a paper up filled with warm coffee. Russet leaves crunched under her boots. She perched on a bench beneath an old oak tree, and took in the beauty of the park. It was easier in places like this, she thought. Easier to forget exactly where she was.

The Doctor had long since abandoned her here. He'd told her they couldn't stay, that it was a parallel universe. He'd told her how everything was wrong here, how harsh the regime was, how immoral, how evil. Clara had shouted at him. John wasn't evil. He could never hurt anyone. She knew him, and her Lord M hadn't an evil bone in his body. How bad could this world be, really, if Lord M were here? The Doctor had given up eventually, had argued and pleaded and shouted at her to no avail. He'd left her, to stay here, and Clara hadn't minded awfully. Not really.

Without the Doctor, she'd quickly run out of money, but John had extended his spare room to her. She'd accepted, tutored his children in English and literature to earn her keep. The ache in her chest at the Doctor's absence was soothed by John's presence. It amazed her, how he was the only company she desired to keep, the only person she wanted around at all times. She had been starved of him for years, and now she wished to make up for those years. She wanted him by her side, always. 

They'd arrived late-October, and Halloween had since been and gone. John's children had enjoyed the holiday immensely. There had been sweets and chocolate, and dressing up, and Clara had even managed to scare John once.

It was so easy to forget when everyone seemed so normal. Indeed, as the wind rustled the falling leaves in the trees, she could hear children shouting and playing. Young couples strolled down the paths, laughing and falling in love. Birds sang merrily from the branches high above her. 

The bench dipped beside her, and a warm body brushed hers. She turned her head, smiled at the familiar face she saw beside her.

'I thought you had a meeting today?' Asked Clara, raising an eyebrow. John chuckled. 

'I did, it concluded rather quickly,' he told her. Clara nodded, taking his words at face value. After all, why would he lie to her?

She sighed happily, let her head drop to rest on his shoulder. He froze, but only for a moment, then an arm snaked around her waist to hold her close. The coffee was warm in her hands, and she held it out to him.

John smiled. 'What is it?'

'Cinnamon latte,' said Clara. John shrugged, took the cup from her. Clara watched, almost mesmerised, as he lifted the cup to his lips. He made a small hum of approval, and she smiled, took the coffee back off him to have some herself. They sat like that for what could have been hours, chatting and sharing her coffee. 

John looked at his watch. He sighed, and Clara understood. Break over. They stood in unison, John's hand still warm on the small of her back. He turned to her, to speak, but he chuckled lightly instead. He lifted his hand slowly, questioning, and Clara nodded. He reached up, pulled a fallen leaf from her hair.

Clara laughed. 'How long was that there?'

'Barely a few seconds, ma'am,' he smiled. His fingers brushed back a piece of hair, his eyes locked on hers. Clara's heart fluttered. 

Her lips parted. She'd waited for this moment, for centuries. His fingers were a ghost of warmth on her cheek, and she leaned forwards, closed the distance between them with barely any hesitation. Her heart pounded mercilessly in her chest, and finally, _finally_ , their lips met in a kiss. Clara's hand wound around his neck. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she tasted her coffee on his mouth. She melted into him, his strong arms holding her closer still. She sighed, and their noses brushed as he pulled back. 

'Clara,' he breathed, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. Clara smiled, giddy, and stood on her toes to kiss him again, and again. Her body fit so well in his, pressed so effortlessly as it was up against him. She was made for him, and he for her. Clara didn't believe in soulmates, but she would tell herself that if they were real, John was hers. She had never been happier, never more content. Never more in _love_.

They parted to breathe, John resting his forehead against hers, their breathing, both, laboured and shaky. 

'I have to...' Was all John managed. Clara nodded.

'Of course,' she said. John smiled, pressed his lips softly to hers in a parting farewell, then he was pulling away and walking down the path. Clara watched him go with a smile. She would meet him at work, she decided. Surprise him. Tomorrow, maybe. 

With that thought, she exited the park and hailed a cab, trailing the tip of her index finger over her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any obvious related anomalies, weird things, will be explained later on. If you think I've missed anything, or have made any mistakes, please let me know!


	4. Hush, Don't You Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people! I'm so sorry about how long this took, Jesus, but uni has been kicking my ass! The chapter is here, it's short (sorry) but here! Just some domestic Vicbourne for y'all as an apology!
> 
> Hang tight though, next chapter is gonna be steamy!
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

The house was quiet when Clara woke, the sun only just peaking in through the windows. She yawned, slipped on a silk robe and made her way quietly down the stairs and through to the kitchen.

Her journal sat on the marble countertop, closed and untouched. She smiled and walked over to the island it sat on, running pale fingertips over dark leather. Closing her hand around it, she sat on a stool and opened the cover. John's fountain pen sat on a counter behind her, and she reached for it. 

The pages were worn, but some were untouched, and she thumbed through until she found one such page. Empty and unused, ready to be filled. She uncapped the pen and paused. Where to begin? Perhaps with how she was feeling.

She was so happy. She could barely remember a time when she had felt such daily joy. John was married, of course. He had children and a loving wife. Clara felt horrible having to lie, and she got along so well with those she was lying to. Helen was wonderful, but she wasn't who John loved. 

He loved her. Of that, Clara was sure. Lord M had loved her always, and John was no different. He showed her in his actions, told her in those quiet moments when they were alone. They were in love, and yet a feeling of dark foreboding hung over them both.

Their idyllic utopia could not last, Clara knew. John's wife would find out eventually. She worried, sometimes, about who he would choose.

It was a strange feeling, being stuck in suspense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Their story felt wrong and unfinished. 

She looked up at the sound of movement. It was John, clothed in his uniform. Clara smiled at him, one that pulled at her lips and brightened her eyes. John replied in kind, and leant down to press a chaste kiss to her lips. His hand stroked through her hair as he passed her, and Clara leaned into his fleeting touch. She returned to her journal while he flicked on the kettle. A contented silence fell over them, one filled with the sounds of pen scratching on paper and the bubble of boiling water.

The cupboard banged closed as John retrieved two mugs from it. Clara sighed, worried her bottom lip with her teeth. The sound of the spoon clinking against china mixed with the click of the lid as it slid into place around the gold-tipped nib of her pen. She set it aside and hummed.

'Do you know when you're dreaming,' said Clara, 'and everything feels real, but yet not? Like you can't control it?'

John nodded and hummed his assent, placing a mug of coffee in front of her. Clara reached for it, and wrapped her hands around it. She brought the creamy porcelain to her mouth. The rim hovered against her lips.

'That's how I feel.'

'Perhaps you're just tired,' John offered, siting down opposite her. Clara nodded, watched as he took a sip of his own coffee. 

'Perhaps,' she sighed. 'You have work today?'

John nodded, and set his mug down. He gripped it tightly, knuckles as white as the china he held. Something had been bothering him ever since Thomas had fallen down the stairs. Clara watched him with concern. 

'What are you thinking?' She asked him. 

John sighed, and shook his head. They say in silence. Clara waited patiently for him to sort through his thoughts before he voiced them.

'Thomas is unwell.' Clara gasped. 'A heredity disease. No cure.'

Clara's features softened in sympathy. She reached across the table and took John's hands in her own. 'I suppose, then, the only we can do is make sure the years he has left are good ones.'

'I can't help but blame myself,' said John, voice quiet and cracking. 'He's my _son_.'

Clara blinked back tears of her own. 'I know.' 

Just as he had always been strong for her, now, it was her turn to be strong for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Drop me a comment to tell me what you think! Also, let me know if you want me to continue with this or not!


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